


Feel My Pain

by riverstones



Series: Tangent Space [2]
Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: F/M, hell hath no fury like wonder woman pissed off, old batman is still a playboy, the world needs more bmww
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:04:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverstones/pseuds/riverstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An obsessed fan kidnaps Bruce Wayne and it's up to Wonder Woman to rescue him.</p><p>In the year 2056, after Batman Beyond and the JLU Epilogue, geriatric Bruce Wayne unwittingly imbibes ambrosia at his own wedding and gets a reluctant second shot at life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Blink in Time

**Author's Note:**

> When I first wrote Untouchable it was meant as a throwaway fic, a little something that I just needed to get off my chest. Buuuut that world kinda took a life of its own, so here we are. (I want to do-over the first story, since it feels so rushed, but I sadly think I used up my best lines already). Also we need moar BMWW.

Flight. The wind whipping her hair. The heat of the sun at midday. The fresh, salty scent of the sea breeze inhaled deep into her lungs. The endless expanse of blue ocean beneath halcyon skies. Diana clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides, mentally preparing herself. The day marked her first mission after several months away from the Justice League, due to some life-changing circumstances. 

Her uniform was new, first time worn, still untested. The metal eagle on her chest was original Themysciran, sewn into a tough-yet-supple polymer-blend fabric. The new pieces were made from the latest cutting-edge material that man’s world had to offer, making her armor a unique mix of both ancient and ultramodern technology. The stylized short skirt was a compromise, because pants chafed, but her trademark star-spangled bloomers got soundly vetoed. Her girdle hung low on her waist, comfortable, allowing her more freedom for acrobatics. A single, thin line ran around it—reverently etched by hand, the only black in her armor of golds, reds and blues—her craftsman’s mark.

In other circumstances she would be enjoying herself. Current circumstances being her team trying to avert a calamity.

_ A tsunami is coming. Get to higher ground. _

The Martian Manhunter’s telepathic blast thrummed loudly in Diana’s mind, his thought soaring faster than any being could fly. She knew others heard him too. She quickened her flight towards the small tropical town at the center of the tsunami’s path.

People were already running when she arrived. She quickly scanned the situation. The area was residential, mostly comprised of sea-front bungalows. Thankfully. This made the evacuation easier as they had to deal with a smaller crowd density.

She felt J’onn’s blanket touch upon them, soothing the people’s feelings of panic.

A sight somewhere to her right seized her with worry. A group of five-year olds were running, seemingly unsupervised.  _ A daycare! _ She saw that their teacher was indeed with them, a young woman, too inexperienced to deal with twenty crying toddlers all at once.

There was no way she could carry all twenty kids to safety in time.  _ Think, think! _

She swooped down towards them, shouting to get their attention. “HEY!” She smiled and made loud happy noises, trying to distract the children from their fear. “Do you guys want to play a game?”

“Wonder Woman!” one of the girls shouted in recognition. “Wonder Woman! Like my dollie!”

“Just like your shirt, too,” she said. “That’s my logo!” 

“Yeah!”

“And you,” she pointed to a boy wearing a blue shirt with an ‘S’ logo, “You look like Superman!”

“Yeah!”

“Let’s go!” She looked around and saw a three-story building not too far from their location. The top floor should be safe enough. “The game is to run to that building over there, okay? Rules: Hold hands, no pushing or pulling, and no looking behind!”

Dutifully, the children grabbed each other's’ hands, no longer fearful. She made their teacher lead while she took the rear position. They marched, as fast as the kids could go without frightening them. She kicked the door open when they got to the building. Still in single file, the kids managed to climb to the highest floor.

They just barely made it when the wave hit.

As the waters rose around the building, the kids started bawling, and this time no amount of playfulness could calm some of the smallest ones down. But that was okay, she thought. Although the building shook violently, it held, and they were safe. At the height of the water, it reached up to the middle the second floor. A few of the children reached towards her, and she pulled them up and hugged them tightly.

As the torrent began to lose momentum, J’onn’s voice again spoke in their minds.

_ The second wave is here _ .

She looked out a window and saw it approach In the distance. Twice as high as the first. She glanced behind at the frightened children, who could see it too.

And then her heart leapt in relief, as a small speck of orange appeared in the middle of the tsunami.

Aquaman had arrived, and he was calming the wave. Slowly but surely, the giant wall of water receded. After a while, it was completely gone.

The ocean and horizon stood calm, as if nothing had happened at all.

 

It took that country’s Disaster Response about an hour until they got the relief centers set up in full swing. Although the property damage was significant, there were zero casualties.

Wonder Woman stayed for an interview. The Justice League could always use good publicity.

“Thank you! Wonder Woman, thank you!” Parents and the children of the daycare mobbed her as she left the interview tent, some crying, all thankful. The crowd around her had their phone cameras out. She smiled, posed for selfies, hugged some of the little ones. She bid them goodbye with a wave.

J’onn J’onzz waited for her at the beach. He had morphed back into his humanoid form. Despite living for years as a human, he still preferred his green-skinned half-human-half-martian form when dealing with League matters. Like her, that day was his first mission since coming back. He had just returned to his League duties after several months off-planet to help the Green Lanterns with an interplanetary war.

She looked around. No sign of the King of Atlantis. He hadn’t stayed for the aftermath. 

She acknowledged her partner, ready to return to base. “Ready to go?”

J’onn had a question to ask first. “Diana, are you wearing a new ring?” he indicated her finger. “I can feel your bliss, even from a distance. Did you and Clark…?”

A fierce blush. “No, not Clark.”

A long pause. J’onn’s stupefaction was evident, even on his alien countenance. “You mean… you and…? No way!” He burst into peals of laughter. “Ahaha, is that old coot still around? Given the human lifespan, I am surprised he is still alive.”

“We accidentally turned him immortal. Long story.”

“The whole works?”

“Just eternal youth.”

“I'll bet he wasn't happy about that,” he surmised (correctly), still chuckling. “Apparently I didn't return soon enough. I would've paid good money to have been there. Is he rejoining the League?”

Yes. “No.” Maybe. “I don't know. We haven't made plans,” she admitted. “He hasn't told me any of his own, certainly. Hey, J’onn,” she emphasized, “this isn't public.”

He raised an extraterrestrial eyebrow. “Wearing a visible wedding ring isn't public? I know, I know, you guys danced around each other for over half a century and you've got every right to wear whatever you damn well please.” She still found it quirky whenever J’onn used euphemisms, but she remembered that he had been living among humans for nearly a hundred years now. He pointed out, “I'm just saying people are going to notice.”

 

She arrived home well into the night. One of the French doors on the balcony leading to their bedroom was unlocked, and she quietly let herself in.

A lone floor lamp lit the minimalist study attached to their sleeping quarters. The room was conservatively furnished in a contemporary design, comprised of a desk, a sofa and a couple of bookcases. A few pieces of furniture were heirlooms, passed down through at least three generations. Cityscape paintings adorned the off-white walls opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows. A large LED TV was mounted in an inner wall. Elegant yet pragmatic, function over form with no sacrifice in style. Very much a reflection of its formerly-solitary owner.

On the antique oak desk lay the day's paper and a hastily-scribbled time sheet. Her husband didn't mind if she looked—he would not have left it in plain sight otherwise. Two meetings with two separate potential suppliers in the morning. Video conference with his CTO after lunch. A charity event at Metropolis in the evening, taking him out of their city to across the bay. More and more he was getting himself involved in the doings of his company. He had a full schedule for tomorrow.

She glanced over to their shared bed, and saw a mop of hair peeking out from under the blankets.  _ He still hasn’t taken up the cowl _ , she realized. There was no doubt in her mind that he would, eventually. He was biding his time. Offhand, she wondered what he was waiting for, but she dismissed her curiosity. Whatever he did, she trusted him.

She took a quick shower. She walked out of the bathroom, toweling her hair.

A low growl behind her left ear. “Come to bed, princess.” Firm hands encircled the skin of her waist, and he pulled her close. A thousand years on, would she still be unable to sneak up on this man? She twisted in his arms so she faced him.

Bruce Wayne, erstwhile Batman, her husband. 

Fifty years after he had resigned from the League, the last thirty of which they had absolute zero contact, and she met him again as an old man. Centuries meant nothing to her, but to men like him fifty years was an entire lifetime, and her world had crashed at the realization. She was surprised at how much it had affected her. She thought she hid it well, as they went together on what ought to have been one final mission for the League.

They got married on a whim, in what for all appearances was a futile effort to grab the little time he had remaining. Instead, by some trick of her mother with the wedding rites that neither of them foresaw, his numbered days had become an eternity. A blink in time turned into forever. He was furious for a while, and guilt gnawed at her that he had not been given a choice. But by the gods, she—immortal, unchanging she—had never in her already long life felt so immensely ...happy. There was no better term for it. She was happy, and deliriously so. Months after the fact, she sometimes found herself in a daze, still unable to believe that  _ this _ was her reality now.

His metamorphosis was almost complete, she thought as she studied him. His face was mature but had regained a lot of his boyish charm. Hardly any wrinkles left. Masculine jaw and a full set of teeth. He bleached his hair to keep up appearances, but his dark roots were showing again. His battle scars had not disappeared, and there were many, across his arms, chest, shoulders, his back. She doubted they would, as whatever caused his changes did not imbue him with healing. But strength and sinew had returned to his broad shoulders—he would not be able to hide the changes from the public much longer. His eyes, ever bright, in that deep midnight hue she found so alluring, never left hers.

Being so near him made her light-headed. She placed her hands on his biceps and, knowing it annoyed him, lifted them both in the air. She was rewarded by that endearing set of his chin. She kissed him soundly, and they settled onto the bed. Under the duvet, she made a pillow of his arm, slid her hand across his stomach, and wrapped one long leg around his two.

“I saw you on the news. Those kids. You were magnificent.” His words warmed her inside while his fingers absently played with her hair. “This is why I love you.”

“I'm sure that's not the only reason,” she teased.

“You're right. It's not,” he answered somberly. He didn't continue.

“Hmph. You're no fun.” She snuggled closer. “I love my new armor. I wore a more comfortable set during the Shang Dynasty, but it gave as much protection as a curtain. This one feels strong, yet I can move freely. Like a glove.” In fact it fit a bit too well. She wasn't sure if it was a testament to how intimately he knew her body—her form, the way she moved—or his skill as a master craftsman, honed through decades of creating reality-defying body-enhancement suits for himself and the many Robins and Batgirls whom trained under him before eventually growing into their own superhero identities. Both, she decided. She pouted. “The skirt is annoying, the way it flips around.”

She felt his scowl. “Hell will freeze over before I make you armored panties, your highness. Only one pair of eyes is allowed to ogle your posterior from now on. Mine.” She wasn’t sure if the last word referred to ogling or to the aforementioned posterior, the way he squeezed it possessively.

“J’onn found out about us today. He guessed, and said some things. I think he's right. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in shadows. We can't hide this. Aren't we going public?”

“As much as I want to shout to the world that you are my wife, I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Mmm?” she murmured quizzically, trying to ignore what he was doing with his hands. “Indulge me. Why not? Terry wears the cowl now. Even on the off chance there are any villains left alive who remember Bruce Wayne as the Bat, how could they get to you through me? I’m invulnerable. No weaknesses.” She knew she said the wrong thing the moment the words left her mouth.

She was flat on her back before she could blink. His dark gaze devoured her, and his weight upon her body made heat pool in intimate places only he, her consummated husband, knew about. “Everyone has a weakness. Even you.” He proceeded to prove it, with each touch, each kiss and each movement performed in the way he knew she liked best. A private dance, just the two of them, in the silent music of the night. Soon she was too helpless to argue.

 

The amber lights shone brightly inside the LexCorp function hall in Metropolis. Circular tables that each sat six people were scattered around the room, tastefully decorated with white table runners, daffodils and tiny tea lights. A private business affair, as par for the course, with around a couple of hundred guests in all.

A young woman stood at the podium at the far end of the room. She looked in her early twenties, but the sophisticated confidence in the way she held herself made it hard to tell her real age. Her naturally platinum blonde hair hung shoulder-length, straight and neatly combed in a no-nonsense style. Light makeup accentuated her vivid green eyes and her beige business suit fit modestly on a slim, almost thin, figure. A plain silver crucifix dangled on a matching chain around her neck. She wore no other jewelry. Her voice was soft and she spoke with an almost melodic tilt. Despite her unassuming nature, she managed to hold the rapt attention of everyone in the room.

Thus stood Lena Luthor, orphaned daughter of Lex Luthor, owner and CEO of LexCorp, one of the most valuable and influential women in the world. She was just about to finish her speech.

“... although I love Africa it feels good to be back in my homeland. From the bottom of my heart, I’d like to thank each and everyone for attending the third year founding anniversary of the Wayne-Luthor World Food Programme,  _ No Hungry Home _ .” Applause. “Now, please everyone, enjoy the dinner.” She waved gently to flashing news cameras as she stepped down from the podium.

Bruce waited behind the stage in a rumpled dress shirt and pants, his white hair partially hidden underneath a beret. He slouched intentionally, partly so as not to attract too much notice to himself, partly borne out of habit. He approached her just as she climbed down the stairs. He raised one hand to get her attention, and her eyes lit up when she recognized him. She quickened her pace to meet him.

“Bruce, you're looking well.”

“As are you,” he greeted. “It’s been a while, Lena. You’re ever such a sight for my old tired eyes.”

“Seriously, you look extremely well for an octogenarian. Did you jump into a Lazarus pit while I was away? Or better yet, did Wayne Enterprises discover a different fountain of youth? A legally marketable one?”

“Hah, I wish,” he smirked. “No, nothing but healthy lifestyle changes. Daily multivitamins, lots of fruits and vegetables and regular exercise.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Fine, so I take other proprietary supplements.” That was the bullcrap story he had decided on when people got too curious about his newfound health.

“Any side-effects so far?”

“It makes the gender you're attracted to look even more attractive.”

“Har har.” She rolled her eyes. “Have you made it available yet? Will you?” Ever the businesswoman.

“Nah. It's still experimental.”

“And who better to experiment on than yourself, of course.” She asked mischievously, “So, tell me, is there anything new with the wifey?”

He barely concealed his reaction. “What?”

“Y’know, ArLy? Artificial limbs for the disabled,” she grinned appreciatively at him, “featured on a special edition of National Geographic released last week? You’re on the front cover! You look great, by the way, kudos to the photographer. Anyway, the project was in your labs for years. Then you took a personal interest, made the final schematics yourself and the project finally succeeded.” She gushed with admiration. Obviously, she had read the article. He felt sheepish that he hadn’t.

“Oh, that,” he replied. He offered her his elbow. “Come, let’s talk about it over dinner. I’m famished. Are you hungry?”

“Not very, but let me join you. It is our food programme after all.”

Dinner was delicious. A few simple courses, nothing extravagant, but prepared and seasoned well. They had the table to themselves. Even old, Bruce was still very much the ladies man. He regaled her (or at least tried to) with stories of the things he had done or read about since their last event together. Lena was an excellent dinner companion, nodding at appropriate places, laughing at his jokes including the more subtle ones, and she had stories of her own to tell about her recent intercontinental trip.

They had been friends for years, ever since she took LexCorp’s helm. In that time he had become somewhat of a mentor and godfather figure in her life, and he knew her mannerisms well. She had an expressive face and wore her heart out on her sleeve. It’s a tough characteristic for a multinational corporation’s CEO, but she somehow managed. Or perhaps it made her all the more endearing. The media loved to paint her as a benevolent angel, not to mention the advantages when forging business relationships. Doors of all sorts opened easily for Lena Luthor.

But something seemed amiss with her during their meal. After they finished eating, he took her out to the eastern porch for some privacy and fresh air. She fiddled uncertainly with her thumbs. She stood close beside him, and spoke in a lowered voice. 

“Say, Bruce? Can I ask something? Well, it’s quite personal.”

“Go ahead.”

“How do you do it? How do you keep giving and giving and not get tired of it all?”

No better answer than the truth. “I'm old. I've lived a full life. This gives me a sense of purpose while I wait for my time to come. You, on the other hand, have barely begun to walk.” He regarded her, sensing an underlying premise behind the young woman’s words. “Lena, you’re not your father. No one tasked you to atone for his misdeeds. You’ve never, ever needed to.”

“I know that,” she replied defensively. "The food programme was never about my father. Well, maybe a little, at the beginning,” she admitted. She sighed deeply. “You’re right. Maybe I am trying to fix my father’s mistakes. Maybe I’m trying too hard at it.”

“You are not him, Lena.”

“No. I am an empath. I thrive on happy thoughts. It’s just that sometimes… quite often, actually… the collective despair of humanity tends to overpower… everything else.”

“And that’s why we’re doing what we’re doing,” he answered her meaningfully. He hailed a passing waiter carrying a tray of champagne glasses. He grabbed one and gave it to her, which she accepted with a nod.

“Thanks. I needed to hear that. I appreciate the talk.” She smiled gratefully as she held her other hand out. He took it and touched her knuckles to his lips.

“It's always a pleasure meeting you.”

“See you around.”

 

He mingled with several more people after parting with Lena, but with his purpose for the event fulfilled, he was quite anxious to head for home. Barring any emergencies at the Watchtower, Diana made a point to fly in by sunset so they could have an intimate tea party in the manor’s roof deck in full view of the lake and gardens which she enjoyed. 

He had discovered that his Themysciran wife arose and descended with the sun. How apropos.

That day’s event made sunset tea out of the question, but he knew she would be waiting at the manor for him. The knowledge evoked a strange feeling that he was still trying to get accustomed to. Alfred—God rest his soul—had always waited for him to come home too, but it was somehow different with a wife. It wasn’t a bad feeling at all, not bad at all. Just unexpected, and new.

He put on a long gray coat as he exited the function hall. Autumn was nearly over. No wind that night, but the temperatures had started to drop. By this time last year, his joints would be aching with the cold weather already. But things were different now, his life turned upside-down. He couldn’t help but wonder how much more had things changed that he hadn’t noticed yet.

Abruptly, he found himself mobbed by a small crowd. He was no stranger to paparazzi, and thankfully, the bunch that greeted him seemed more decent than most. A number of them carried copies of the National Geographic edition featuring himself. He chatted them up and answered all the inquiries, always civil, neutral when asked any loaded questions, and always polite. He knew from experience that the the quickest way to escape once he was caught in the middle of a crowd (short of rappelling away with his grappling hook) was to give them what they wanted, and frankly, what they wanted usually wasn’t much of a problem for him. They began to disperse after he signed the magazines and posed for several photos. The reporters went away after he sent them packing with a few choice quotes.

“We’re so grateful to you, Mr. Wayne,” an ethnic middle-aged woman carrying a toddler approached him, last of the group. “My husband lost his legs in Kazakhstan, and thanks to your work he can walk again.”

“I’m glad, Miss,” he said, smiling. He shook her hand, and then the hand of the little girl.

“Thwank you! Thwank you!” the child murmured as she waved goodbye. Suddenly, an image of Diana holding a dark-haired babe flashed unbidden in his mind. He brushed the image aside, strangling the thought.

“May I have your autograph, Mr. Wayne?” A deep male voice called from behind him. A pen and another magazine was enthusiastically thrust towards his hands. Odd, he thought he had already talked to everybody. He gripped the pen while trying to think of an encouraging message to write.

He felt a sharp pain, and looked down. A tiny actuated syringe jutted above his elbow.

Poison?  _ No, a tranq— Shit— _

Then blackness.


	2. Pinpoints in the Dark

_ You are unexpectedly heavy, Mr. Wayne. And tall. Really tall. Newspaper photos could certainly be deceiving, eh?  _

_ Now, where are your pills? Your pills, your maintenance pills. The ones keeping you alive, like you said in that TV interview. I don't want to accidentally kill you, you know? Well, maybe I intend to kill you later, but certainly not right now.  _

_ Is it in this pocket? That pocket? Drat, I can't find them. We have no choice but to substitute. What to do, what to do…  _

_ Ah don't move, or you'll cause an accident. We’re not home yet, oh no. We're only on the freeway. Still an hour’s drive away.  _

_ Why don't you sleep now? Yes, just like that. Ah, I said— DON'T MOVE! You hurt my arm, you son of a— You'll pay for this—  _

_ Ah, there we go. We’ll clean up the blood later. Nice and sleepy. Nice and sleepy. _

 

Sunlight streamed from the eastern windows. Diana opened her eyes groggily. She reached over to her side, searching for the familiar warmth of her partner’s arm. Nothing. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and looked at his empty half of the bed.

Operational hazard of being married to a superhero, even a retired one, she supposed.

She stood up. The clock on the mantlepiece said seven a.m. Time to get ready. She went to the bathroom. Wash face. Brush teeth. She went to their walk-in closet. Underwear. Breastplate. Skirt. Belt. Boots. Bracers. She went to the vanity and combed her hair. Tiara. She went to the full-length mirror and looked at her reflection. Yep, she was still Wonder Woman. The mantlepiece clock said seven-thirty.

She turned her gaze out the window of their bedroom. The man-made lake of the Wayne estate glistened in the morning sun, its waters gray and calm. Untroubled, unlike her.

Where was he? Why didn’t he say anything about not coming home?

She thought back, and figured that this would be the first time Bruce hadn’t slept at the manor in the months since they were married. It was true that so far he had told her about all his doings. He left her notes on his daily company schedules. He discussed his pet projects with her at night. He had made no secret of his working out, preparing his formerly-atrophied body once more for the physical exertion that came with their chosen occupation.

Did he assume the cowl without telling her? But what business was that of hers if he did, anyway? Did she just take the assumption for granted that just because they were married now he would tell her everything? He was the Bat! Vengeance in the night! Untied, unchained, mysterious as the dark side of the moon! And he would always be. He answered to no one, not even her. Whatever he told her, he did out of respect, not obligation. She knew that coming in into their relationship, and to be honest, she wouldn’t have taken him any other way.

She chided herself for double standards. She didn't tell him about her each and every mission, nor every little thing that went on in the Watchtower either. Such as Warhawk making goo-goo eyes at Aquagirl, and Clark acting …weird… towards her sometimes. Clark had always been who he was, but something had changed between them since she married Bruce. As if their friendship had gotten strained. It was especially difficult since they were the two core members of the League, the two pillars who had been present since the beginning and had never left. A rift between them could possibly tear the entire Justice League apart.

No, she took it back. She kept no delusions of her importance. The League revolved solely around Superman, like it always had ever since Batman left them to their devices fifty years ago. The League would be lessened if she left, but it would simply continue on without her. Instead, her leaving might break  _ him.  _ Like himself, she and J’onn alone of all the people who had been close to him would not die anytime soon of old age. Despite everything that has happened between them, she was still his oldest and dearest remaining friend.

She definitely wouldn’t tell her husband about that anytime soon.

 

She realized something was indeed amiss when Kevin, their butler, stood waiting for her by the dining table. He usually left their breakfast and went off to his other duties. 

“Good morning, Miss Diana.” Kevin Beaumont greeted her. His bright orange hair was neat and thick horn-rimmed glasses covered a pair of sea-green eyes. Barely in his twenties, he looked otherwise average in every way. Wearing an immaculately-tailored suit, he spoke with a negligible French accent.

He was the grandson of one of Bruce’s old flames, if she remembered correctly, an Andrea Beaumont. Bruce had told her the story. Kevin had arrived at the Wayne manor with nothing but a literal sack of his own clothes and two letters—one a letter of recommendation, and a more personal letter asking for financial help among other things. Bruce took the boy under his wing for old times sake, but gone were the days when he would train a Robin, so Kevin landed the long-vacant butler position. On top of his duties, Bruce had taken care of his education. He had already completed his Bachelor’s and was currently taking his Master's degree in languages under scholarship from the Wayne Foundation.

It was just as well. Kevin was too mild-mannered to become a Robin or a Nightwing. Then again, you never knew. Jason Todd had been pretty mild-mannered too.

“Good morning,” she replied. “Is there anything wrong?”

Kevin was uncharacteristically anxious. “Master Bruce has not returned from his convention in Metropolis. His chauffeur waited all night but he never called or returned to the parking lot.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Miss, I haven't known Master Bruce for as long as you have, but in the past four years I've worked here, he has never failed to leave a message with Alfred whenever he has a change of plans. There were no messages last night.”

“Alright. I’ll pay Alfred a visit.”

 

She was finally starting to get used to the batcave. It was so deep underground that it was naturally and effectively climate-controlled, with a constant temperature and humidity whatever season or weather was above ground. After her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she carefully made her way to the main computer terminal located at the center of the cavern.

One of the last few projects that Bruce and Alfred had worked on together before the latter’s demise was to bestow proper speech upon the batcave computer. Every word, every utterance and syllable had been meticulously recorded in the now-immortalized voice of Alfred Thaddeus Pennyworth.

Bruce would first eat one of the batmobile’s tires before ever admitting it, but she knew that, especially on Alfred’s part, it had been a labor of love.

“Alfred?” she called.

“Yes, Mrs. Wayne?” The terminal came to life in front of her, and Alfred’s familiar voice blared from the batcave speakers. She felt a pang at how he addressed her. She was still ‘Miss Diana’ the last time she went down there, not a few days ago. Bruce must have made the moniker change only recently.

“Where is Batman?”

“Which Batman?”

“Bruce.”

“No location found.” It was worth a shot.

“Terry. Where is Terry?”

“Terry is on an extended mission in Beijing until next month." Great, she thought sarcastically. Why was it that the people whose skill sets were suited to a particular dilemma always seem to go out of the country every time they were needed at home?

“What is Bruce’s last known location?”

“The Wayne-Luthor World Food Programme Anniversary Dinner at the LexCorp Complex in Metropolis. He was reported seen with Lena Luthor.”

“What is Bruce’s schedule for today?”

“8 a.m. Breakfast with Diana. 10 a.m. Meeting with Wayne Enterprises CTO. 3 p.m. Weight training. Rest of day unscheduled.”

That didn’t make sense. Well, other than his impunity to schedule their breakfasts together. In other circumstances she would have found it sweet, but right then she was too uneasy. He should have been home.

Her league communicator vibrated. She put it to her ear.  “Wonder Woman.”

Superman's voice spoke from the other end. “Cruise ship ambushed off the coast of Somalia. Target is a South Korean V.I.P.  Not ordinary pirates, they were ready for us. Warhawk is hurt. Need backup stat.”

“Send me the coordinates.”

“Just track my comm.”

“On my way.”

 

When she arrived, most of the lifeboats had already ejected and half the cruise ship was on fire.

She beelined to the red cape with the giant ‘S’. Clark briefed her on the situation. Green lantern had already retreated, taking the remaining hostages and the injured Warhawk with him. They had about twenty pirates on their hands, each armed with machine guns. Some carried unorthodox weapons like bola launchers. At least one had an RPG. 

Strategy: divide and conquer. She nodded. He went starboard, she went port.

One punch, one pirate. She managed to get five down in short order.

Several bolas shot simultaneously towards her, and three of them found their mark. She fell flat on her face on the ship deck, bound by her arms and legs. Clark was right, these guys were indeed ready for the Justice League. Whatever material they used in the ropes was so tough she couldn’t break it with her brute strength. She could still fly, however. She levitated, then scanned around for a way to break the ropes off. She saw Superman.

“Kal! Help!” She shouted. Clark turned around, searching for her voice. He saw her. She wiggled her bound arms at him. Twin lasers burned the ropes off of her wrists and legs, the heat ineffective on her impervious skin.

She was peppered with bullets. They bounced off her skin, her breastplate and bracers, but the rest of her armor did not escape unscathed. She cursed viciously when she spied a hole in her skirt by the right hip. Her expression blackened further when she remembered that her armorer was currently missing.

She was oh so much not in the mood for this sort of crap at the moment.

She flew to the stern of the ship, where she came upon several very convenient container vans. She picked out the largest. With a grunt, she lifted it into the air. 

Back to the fighting, Clark was still holding his own. The thing about fighting on ships was that there was only so much space to move around in. The remaining pirates were grouped together close enough to her liking.

She unceremoniously dropped the humongous crate on their heads. 

And that was that. 

 

Superman had a bit of explaining to do with the local authorities considering the damage that resulted to the cruise ship. Luckily, the V.I.P. they saved was beholden to them and helped smooth things over. If the Justice League had not arrived, the situation might have ballooned into an international fiasco.

“That was brutal, especially for you.” Clark didn’t mince words when he got her alone afterwards.

Diana was unapologetic. She sniffed, “They were wearing helmets. Nobody died.” And then her expression changed into a somber one. “Bruce didn't come home last night.“

“Oh. Should we worry?”

“I don't know yet. He was last seen with Lena Luthor.”

“Lena’s a good guy.”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Kal, can I ask a favor?”

“Anything.”

She looked straight up into the clear blue sky. “I’ll tell you up there.”

 

It has been a few hours since she dragged Superman up into stratosphere to search for her husband using his x-ray vision.

“Still nothing?” she asked anxiously.

Clark shook his head as they looked down towards the earth below. “Nothing. I've scanned Gotham, Metropolis, twenty other major cities and ports. Nothing. You know, this isn’t the first time he disappeared on us. I don’t need to point out that last time he did this, we didn’t hear from him for over thirty years.”

“He wasn’t my husband back then.” She bit her lower lip thoughtfully, “I guess I’m still new to this whole ‘being married’ thing. I don’t know what to expect or how I should act. Lois worried for you every night you’re late coming home, wouldn’t she?”

“That’s not exactly a fair comparison.”

“Isn’t it? What makes it any different?” She looked straight at him, her eyes bright. Two sapphire pinpoints in the darkness of space. “I’m sorry, Kal.” 

Lois Kent had died many years ago after a protracted battle with lung cancer. She and Clark had no living children.

“It’s alright,” Clark answered. In the thin air of the upper atmosphere, she felt more than heard his sigh. “I’ll do another scan,” he conceded, although his expression said he didn’t think much would come out of it. He gave her an affectionate hug. Maybe a little more affectionate than was strictly proper. “Keep your chin up. He's Batman.”


	3. Untraceable

Untraceable

_ What is this… makeup? You're wearing really thick makeup. Your hair is bleached. You are… young. Are you really Mr. Wayne? Has the real one died and been swapped with an imposter? I can't imagine her playing along with that scheme, so I'll assume you're the real deal for now. It doesn't matter, I suppose. _

_ My, those are a lot of scars. I do mean a lot. Did you fight in a war when you were young? Tortured, maybe? All over your chest. There's a huge one right here on your abdomen… and a matching scar at your back. Spear impalement? Looks like it went clean through you. It barely missed your kidney, probably. Lucky to survive this one.  _

_ Gah, scars all over your legs too. Another big one by your left hip. That must have been one hell of a war. _

_ Don't struggle, or I'll have to hurt you, and it'll be your fault, yes? This is so unexpected, I didn't prepare for you to be… healthy… I guess it can't be helped. Aah, this is actually a good thing, really good, I can up your dosage without worry. Let's try doing that now, shall we? Yes, nice, it's time to sleep… _

 

The sun was setting over the outskirts of Gotham on that cold autumn day. Barbara Gordon stood with a group of policemen by the side of a road, where a gray ten-year old sedan was parked. The sedan doors were open, as if it had been abandoned. Barbara held a large gray trenchcoat in one hand.

Wonder Woman flew down near the commissioner. “Thanks for coming over,” Barbara greeted. “Not in uniform?”

“It’s my day off,” Diana replied.

Barbara motioned to the car. “Gotham plate. This car was reported stolen about a month ago. We found this in the back seat. Your husband’s coat.” Barbara handed it to her. Ah, so Barbara was in the know. “How long has it been since you last saw him?”

“Four days and nineteen hours.”

“And you didn’t report this to us?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should. You know him. He’ll disappear for weeks only to turn up in a Russian bunker or some such place.” She looked at the car thoughtfully. “Maybe… just maybe, now I have a reason to worry.”

“Alright.”

“Barbara, wait. You're not going to search for him?”

Barbara shook her head in the negative. “We don't have the manpower to spare. Not for this. There's nothing here to indicate foul play other than that coat, and the owner of the coat has not been reported missing. All evidence suggests a cut-and-dried carnapping.” She shrugged. She lowered her voice, “Besides, I can't imagine what kind of diabolical criminal could hold Batman—even a geriatric one—against his will. If such a criminal existed, the Justice League is in a much better position to help him anyway.”

Off to the side, a voice called, “Hey! Hey, that’s my car! You found my car! Give it back!” A police officer approached them to talk to the commissioner, carrying a clipboard.

“Please excuse me,” Barbara said. “I need to see to this.”

Diana held the coat to her chest with both arms and flew off.

 

The second floor west wing library of the Wayne manor was hers. Two months upon moving in, Bruce had converted a small section of the library for her into a compact study/office where she could get League paperwork done if she needed to. Her olive-wood desk was complete with a laptop, second monitor, an old-fashioned phone, and various paper notepads and supplies. She had spent the past few days there outside of her League duties.

For the umpteenth time Diana played the LexCorp CCTV footage again. She had hacked into the LexCorp system to retrieve it three days ago.

The camera was pointed at the event hall doors. She watched as Bruce exited the event hall, wearing the same coat that Barbara had retrieved from the stolen car. She saw as he was mobbed by paparazzi and fans with the National Geographic magazines. The crowd started moving to the left of the camera. A woman with a child approached. Bruce smiled at them and the three of them continued walking. A tall man in a hat and coat carrying another National Geographic magazine followed them. Then the entire group went offscreen.

She found no other relevant CCTV feed. 

Yesterday, after her League hours, she had visited the LexCorp event hall. Everything had been swept clean. She found the camera where the last footage of Bruce had been taken. There was a blind spot where her husband had disappeared.

For the umpteenth time she reached for the phone, only to stop midway. Call Lena and ask if Bruce had said anything. She wanted to shriek in frustration. If only he had agreed to go public with their marriage she could have made myriad inquiries days ago without worrying about gossip. She cursed. Gossip and Bruce's wishes be damned. She dialed Lena. A LexCorp secretary answered, and after finding out who the caller was, promptly forwarded her to Lena’s personal line.

“Hi,” Lena’s cheerful voice spoke from the other end. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call, Diana?”

“Hey. I'm just wondering if you've heard from Bruce Wayne recently.”

“Are you on another fishing expedition? We’re only working together on the Food Programme. No new collaborations and nothing planned for the next six months. Why, is the Justice League interested?”

“I didn't mean that. You last saw him at the anniversary dinner, right? Did he tell you anything unusual?”

“Why don't you ask him yourself? Aren't you and Bruce good friends? Like, really really good friends? He thinks no one notices but he goes ga-ga over you whenever you're on the news.”

“What?”

“You were on TV when Bruce and I had a working lunch last month. The Central City factory fire. He thinks he hides it well but inside he went bonkers. Can't tell if it was worry or admiration, probably both. He's been doing that for years. I'm sure he won't mind my spilling it.”

She remembered that Lena was an empath, and a very strong one. Attuned to feelings and emotions. She wondered if Lena could pick up on her feelings right now. “I haven't been able to contact Bruce in the past few days. He was last seen with you at the anniversary dinner.”

“I see.” A short pause, as if Lena was thinking. “We didn't talk about anything extraordinary. Mostly we just talked about his Nat Geo article.”

“Did he say if he was going anywhere afterwards?”

“He was eager to get home, as far as I could tell. Hey, you're so worried I can sense you over the phone. Is Bruce missing?”

“Yes.” She didn't want to admit it. Suddenly it hurt to finally say it aloud. “Yes, he is missing.”

“Have you hacked my CCTV footage already? I’ll have my people send it to you if you haven't.”

“Yes, I did, three days ago,” she grimaced. “I'm sorry. The footage wasn't very useful.”

“Look, Diana, it's okay. I know we haven't exactly been friends. We've butted heads often enough, and we'll probably continue to do that—but, y’know, I know the League only has good intentions.”

“Thanks. By the way, I'm sorry about the automaton I busted up.”

Lena giggled. “Heh. You guys keep my scientists sharp. I'll send you a bill if you're  _ really _ sorry.”

“Uhm—”

“Just kidding. Hope Bruce turns up soon. Bye.”

That was surprisingly easy, she could kick herself. Unfortunate that it turned out to be a dead end. 

 

Later that day, at the dinner table, Kevin handed her a package. Her first indication that something was wrong was the recipient name. It was addressed specifically to a Diana P. Wayne.

The rectangular package was about as long as her arm. No return address. Earmarked by the Gotham Postal Service. Postage paid all in stamps—Gotham stamps. She tore the cardboard open.

It was a portable cassette player. She had not seen one of these in sixty years. A chill crept up her spine at her second indication that something was, indeed, terribly wrong.

Phone calls, voice mail, email, social media messages could all be tracked to its source. A decades-old working cassette could not. It was more likely to be found in someone's grandparent’s attic than in antique or junk shops. The most she could hope for was that the perpetrator had been careless and left fingerprints. She could get as far as the post box it had been dropped at, but the trail may end there. Sixty years ago she would have had more options. She would have been able to track its source down herself, via various investigation channels. But all those methods were gone now, rendered obsolete by the passing of technology. In the modern age of smartphones, big data and 24/7 interconnectivity, relics such as this were effectively untraceable.

She checked if batteries were included, and indeed they were. She pressed the play button.

_ Diana Prince, _ said a deep male voice.  _ But that’s not your name anymore, is it? _

Her insides turned to ice.

_ Do you know that marriages are public records? I was browsing the website of the Office of Vital Statistics one day when I came across a marriage registration dated the 14th of August 2056, of one Diana Prince to Bruce Wayne of Gotham City. _

_ Why him? _

_ Was Superman not good enough for you? How about the King of Atlantis? One of the Green Lanterns? Was there no other metahuman hero or alien emperor to choose? _

_ Instead you picked a senile old man with nothing to recommend himself but money. _

_ If I kill him and give you a million dollars, will you marry me too? _

_ Will I also turn young and immortal? _

_ He bought you, didn’t he? He bought you! And you let him buy you! You sold yourself for money! _

_ Do you know what it’s like to wake up in the morning knowing that the goddess you have worshipped all your life is nothing but a gold-digger? No better than a common whore! _

_ You're a fu— fa— a disappointment!  _

_ I waited three days for you before sending this message. It should now be the fourth day since I took your husband. Are you even looking for him? _

_ Why haven't you found us yet? Why haven't you found me? _

_ I'm getting tired of waiting. _

Numb. She was numb. She was way in over her head. No shame in strategic retreat. No shame in accepting help. Now was not the time for her stubborn warrior pride that she could handle this problem alone.

She ran, jumped out the nearest open window, and flew like mad to the Watchtower.

 

Clark looked up from his terminal as the door of the monitor womb opened. J’onn likewise stood up from his seat.

Diana's blue eyes were wild. “Bruce has been kidnapped. Pull it out of my mind, J’onn. I can't bear to listen to it again right now.”

J’onn concentrated. “Well?” Clark wanted to know.

“Looks pretty bad,” J’onn answered. “I’m going to scan for him. If he is alive, I will find him.” Pause. “He's not in Gotham or Metropolis.” The second pause was far longer. Much too long. Clark and Diana looked at each other as they caught on to what J’onn was doing.

A planet-wide telepathic scan. All twelve billion minds of humanity.

J’onn’s body shivered, and Diana and Clark simultaneously rushed to his side. He fell from the exertion, and they helped him sit down.

“Odd. I cannot find his consciousness,” J’onn said after he had recovered.

“What?” Clark exclaimed. In the background could be heard the continuous murmur of ventilation ducts and the beeping of the monitor womb consoles. "How is that possible?”

“I cannot sense him at all. Either is not on earth, or he is no longer alive, or he is in such a deep state of unconsciousness that his mind is completely blank. It must be deeper than a normal sleep, else I would have caught onto his dreams. The kind of sleep induced by a very strong sedative, or medical anaesthesia.”

They looked at each other in silence as the implications sank in. Clark announced, “This is official League business now. J’onn, you're investigation lead. Diana, tell us everything you know.”


	4. Macabre

_ What does she see in you? There's still a part of me that can't believe she would stoop so low as to marry for money. _

_ Blackmail? Did you blackmail her? Maybe that's it. Did you point a nuke towards Paradise Lost? I wouldn't put it past you. What power do you hold over my goddess that she would even give you the gift of eternal youth? _

_ I hate you, Mr. Wayne. Yes, I do believe I will kill you when this is all over. You still bleed, so apparently the youth was the extent of it. _

_ You've wet the sheets again. This won't do at all. You are quite, quite filthy now. I suppose it's a consequence of being under a constant intravenous drip. No no no, we're not taking it off, not for a long while yet. Here, let me change your sheets. I think I'm almost out of clean ones. _

_ I have to admit, once we took off your makeup, you are good looking. Not to mention rightfully endowed. Is this why she chose you? Of all things, ha ha… _

_ I never stood a chance, did I? Never stood a chance… _

 

It has been seventy-two hours since Diana had run to the Watchtower for help. Superman had taken her off field duty until the case was solved, so instead she spent her League shifts in the monitor womb while J’onn followed the case leads down on earth.

J’onn had managed to talk to the paparazzi and the woman and child from the LexCorp CCTV footage. He had combed the LexCorp function hall and the surrounding areas for clues. He had interviewed the owner of the car where Bruce’s coat had been found. He had traced the cassette player to the post box where the package had been dropped. He even visited Lena, who had graciously agreed to a mind probe. In every lead they could follow, he had come up empty.

Seventy-two hours on, and they were still clueless.

The cassette player lay in front of her terminal. She forced herself to listen to it again, hope upon hope that she had simply missed something.

_ I’m getting tired of waiting. _

Again. She grit her teeth and listened to the message again. And then the voice triggered a memory.

_ Why haven’t you found us yet? Why haven’t you found me?  _ “Hey! Hey, that’s my car! You found my car!”

The man who owned the stolen car.

_ J’onn!! _ Her thoughts screamed. She projected her mind, knowing he would easily pick up her train of thought, in images too fast for her to bother with words.  _ What's the address!? _

_ 18 Wallace Street in Brooksville. Do you need backup? _

_ Yes! _

She broke the sound barrier. The address took her to the poorest, farthest suburb of Gotham. She saw the gray sedan where Bruce's coat was found, parked in a garage with the broken gate. The front door was unlocked, and she went in. To the right of the living room was an open kitchen. A door to a bathroom. The place had only one other room. She headed there. The sight she saw as she opened the bedroom door would burn into her retinas for a long while.

Wall-to-wall posters of herself were distinguishable even in the dim light. Newspaper clippings. Press release flyers. Justice League promotional calendars. Probably all the official and unofficial merchandise they had released of her over the past twenty years. At one corner of the room was propped a blow-up doll, crudely painted to look like Wonder Woman in armor—was it used? She couldn’t tell, and refused to think about it. The centerpiece was a larger-than-life poster of her that they released during the fiftieth anniversary of the Justice League, where she wore a white ceremonial uniform. Plastic replicas of her weapons were arranged around it—shield, sword, lasso. A single lamp shone above, directly illuminating her image.

Right below the macabre shrine, upon a thin mattress, naked, covered with nothing but a filthy sheet, lay the unmoving body of her husband. An intravenous plastic tube twined around his arm, connected to a bagged cocktail of dextrose and drugs that kept him constantly sedated.

“You certainly took your time.” A voice called from somewhere to her left. “Do all goddesses do that?”

A man stood across the room from the other side of the shrine. Probably in his late twenties. Thin, but not quite bony. Nondescript. Brown hair. Steel-framed round glasses. Someone she would easily pass on the street and forget about in seconds. Except for the glock he held in his hand.

Diana boldly stepped into the room and addressed him, “I'm not a bleeding heart like Superman. I've killed before. I swear I  _ will _ kill you if you don't release him now.”

“Oh, I know you will. In fact I anticipated that. You see that little vial attached to one of those tubes? Animal tranquilizer, not for human use. Can take down a full-grown gorilla. It's linked to this little heart monitor here.” He tapped at his chest where a small squarish bump protruded from under his shirt. “When my heart stops, so will his.”

She glanced at the body, then at the man. Thoughts flew over her mind in an instant. Could she disarm the tranq and simultaneously protect Bruce from the gunshots? Could she rush him, take the gun and keep him from disconnecting the heart monitor? She had just said it—she wasn't Superman. She was fast but not that fast. Dare she risk it? Bruce had only one life.

The man waved the pistol at her. “Goddess, goddess, kneel before me, my goddess.”

For the longest moment, she held still. Then, deliberately, she lowered herself. Down onto one knee, then on two.

“Take off your breastplate,” he screamed. “Take it off! Humiliate yourself for me!”

Palms inward, she haltingly raised her hands over to her chest. Her shaking fingers clutched at the golden Themysciran eagle.

“No, stop! No, no, my goddess is pure, like I am. Not like this filth.” He walked over to the mattress and kicked at an unmoving leg so hard it would later bruise. “You’re invulnerable. I can’t hurt you. Instead… what if I do this?” He pointed the pistol directly at the exposed abdomen. “If I hurt him, if I kill him, will you feel it? Will you feel this, my goddess?”

This puny little insect holding the gun was nothing to her. She could crush him into pulp. She could grind his bones to powder. Tear him apart from limb to limb. Rip his heart out through his throat with her bare hands and not break a sweat. Instead, a disembodied voice that sounded just like hers spoke. “Don't kill him! I'll give you anything you want!” The room blurred as her eyes suddenly had trouble focusing. The voice continued, from far away, not under her control, “Take my body. Make love to me. I'll do anything, just let him go.”

“You'd do that?” he stammered. But the gun held steady. “No,” he said. The room spun, and a void opened in the pit of her stomach.

“No, I can make love to you ten thousand times and you will not feel a single thing. You say you’ll do anything? Then I want you to feel. Feel me. Feel my pain.”

He pointed the gun inside his own mouth and shot.

Many things happened at once. Fast as sound, she leapt to Bruce’s prone form and yanked out the plastic tubing on his arm. Blood spurted like a crimson snake and she pressed her thumb against the wound. The southern wall imploded as Superman and the Martian Manhunter arrived at the scene. Police sirens blared in the distance.

He was alive. He wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t wake up. He was alive. She cradled him in her arms and whispered his name over and over like a mantra.

Clark looked around the room, noting Diana and Bruce, the dead body, and the room’s lurid paraphernalia. He shivered involuntarily, not from cold.

“Go on, get out of here,” J’onn said. “I can take care of things from this end.”

Clark nodded. With some effort Diana managed to compose herself. She wrapped the sheet tightly around Bruce’s hips and midsection so it wouldn’t fall off when they moved. She hooked one arm under his shoulders, another arm under his knees, and bodily picked him up like he weighed nothing.

Clark keyed in the teleporter coordinates on his communicator, and in a few more moments three of them arrived at the Watchtower.

 

Some time later, Diana met J’onn in the hall just outside the Watchtower medical bay. “How is Bruce?”

J’onn replied, in his usual stoic manner, “We needed to put him back under an intravenous drip to flush the drugs out of his system more quickly. It will take a couple more days before he is in the clear. He is awake now.”

“Who was the kidnapper?”

J’onn explained, “His name was Hank O'Neal. He was extremely gifted as a child, but became a nursing school dropout. His next of kin is out of state. He lived off welfare and did some day-trading on the side. He was once diagnosed with both bipolar and borderline psychosis, but didn’t have the means for treatment. There is a medical mission nearby where he stole the I.V. solutions and some of the other drugs from. They’re so understaffed and underfunded that although they were aware of the constant theft they could do nothing about it.

“I interviewed him. Bruce had been right under my nose. I wish I caught him earlier. He didn't have the megalomania I've come to associate with supervillains, so he slipped completely under my radar.”

“J’onn, did he…? Bruce, was he…?” She couldn’t bring herself to think of the word, much less say it.

“No, Bruce was not violated. He was not the target.”

Diana buried her face in her hands. “I've fought against alien brutes and survived interplanetary wars. And yet I was rendered absolutely helpless by… Great Hera, he didn't even have powers. Just a mentally-ill kid. We could have helped if we had known about him before.”

 

Bruce looked up as Diana entered through the medical bay doors. He was sitting up, reading on a data pad. She recognized the civilian clothes he wore as an old set of Clark’s. A good enough fit, if a bit tight in the shoulders. He spoke, “This is the second time this year I've woken up in the Watchtower medical bay, and I'm not even a League member yet. I hope this isn't turning into a habit.” He smiled crookedly at her in greeting.

“Are you… are you alright?” She sat down beside him.

“I'm fine. Clark told me what happened. I was asleep through all of it. I don't remember a thing.” He reached for her hand. “It must have been hard for you. I'm sorry, I was so engrossed in my own affairs, in trying to keep you from the enemies I don't actually have, that it didn't occur to me the opposite could happen. I was stupid. I should've been more careful.”

“This tube,” she said absently as she traced her finger around the silicone tubing on his forearm, “I never want to see another of these things. I want to rip it out—”

“Diana, stop.” She started at his use of her name. He was looking at her strangely. Concerned, as if she was the one and not him who was sick. “Come here and kiss me.”

She paused uncertainly, not quite ready to believe her nightmare of the past week was finally over. But he was there, waiting for her, and he seemed real enough. She projected her thoughts to her teammate in the monitor womb.  _ J’onn, cameras off please. I'd like some privacy. _

_ Done. Bruce already requested it. _

She slid into the bed beside him, carefully, on the side of his good arm. As she pressed herself into his familiar warmth, her uneasiness disappeared, and she had but one overriding thought. She was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Authors are insecure little creatures. Leave a comment! Thanks!


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